Nocebo
by Anna Marcelli Palmer
Summary: Through my self-destruction, I can finally be someone.
1. Akinaesthesia

**Placebo, ****_a story by Anna Marcelli Palmer_**

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><p><strong><em>"They call me Ubik, but that's not my name. I am. Now and forever."<br>__~Philip K. Dick, _Ubik**

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><p><strong>-1- <strong>

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><p>Something <em>dead wrong<em> is happening to me.

Am I going insane, or is there something thoroughly amiss about this situation? I mean, look at me; I, the glorious hero Sonic the Hedgehog, cannot control my own legs.

Slightly nauseated by what is practically my own trademark, trying not to pay attention at the frantic interchange of colors and shapes all around me, I give them a sour look. They are moving of their own accord, heading directly for the northern end of Green Hill, one foot subsiding to herald the other, and way from the beginning, again and again; the recurrent motif almost hypnotizes me, so I reluctantly avert my look, turning my attention back to the surroundings.

_...Grey. Blue. Yellow. Green. Blue. Red. Green. Yellow. Blue. Red. Green. Grey. Blue. _

Up ahead in the distance, there is an indefinite blur. My first guess is that it's a robot-and it's coming closer and closer. Oh, wait! Wrong use of syntax; I am the one approaching, thanks to my stupendous, sprinting limbs.

_This_ can't be happening.

_This_ is a cruel joke.

...

...

...

_This_ is me performing a homing attack.

My eyes instictively follow the comical pattern of the stalled machine, as it spirals on its own axis and collides against a rock. Smashing itself to shards.

Fuck.

_What kind of freakish thing is taking control over my body?_ How on Mobius can it know what it's doing so perfectly? A slight tremor spreads across every acre of my flesh.

It's cold. It's blurry. It's confusing.

It's like I am an onlooker of my own life. Able to watch myself run, and jump, and dodge all kinds of obstacles and incoming missiles, but here's the twist; I can do nothing about it. Doesn't our brain define all this stuff? Is something wrong _in there?_ Have the neurons stopped reproducing themselves, is the vortex damaged or something? Doesn't my body receive any signals?

But it does know where to go and how to protect itself. So some kind of signal does affect my route.

Only.

That I am not.

Emitting it.

The whole extent of this new surreal reality hits me. Something is controlling me. I am not independent anymore. But-

when...

when was-

When was I independent?

No. Nononononono. I am terrified, my heart is beating so heavily against the ribcage that I 'm afraid it'll break the bone and set itself free. Blood is frenetically pumping through my arteries, my lungs are void of air, my body is heavy, so heavy it's excruciating to carry it. A throbbing migrain is ticking the seconds away within the skull, and every step seems to be screaming the name of the only force I can feel anymore.

Gra-vi-ty. Gra-vi-ty.

GRAVITY.

I am tired. I am exhausted. And those legs aren't the least bit willing to reach a halt.

I think I hate them. Maybe I'll cut them off as soon as I have the opportunity. Never mind the blood; those things are _insidious_.

My legs are trying to kill me: I will run until I consume myself. Until my stomach declares war to my own heart and digests it for fliggin' calories.

Feeling; The perspective of death gives the subject perfect conscience of its body functions. Muscles in turmoil, stretching and releasing, producing galactic acid with every inch forward. Lungs void of oxygen. An incessant crashing sound of some invisible pendulum smashing against the head. Pain. Physical and emotional. The burning feeling of self-destruction.

Suicide on autopilot.

Perfect.

_...Red. Yellow. Blue. Green. Yellow. Blue. Green. Grey. Brown._

_Sky, bird, grass, ring, sky, enemy, enemy, enemy, wall, obstacle, sky, grass, sky, grass..._

Music. My ears can distinctly make out some kind of zany melody echoing. From the woods? From the sky?

I hate my legs.

I'll cut them off if they don't assassinate me first.

Fear. Dread. Perspiration. Dilation of the retinae.

I hate my legs.

I HATE MY LEGS.

God, when is it gonna stop? I feel so tired. My mind is growing weak and sick from all of this. Why did I come to this place? I shouldn't have come. None of this would have happened...

Where was I before? Oh, I vaguely remember being at Tails' workshop, testing some new upgrade of-

Who is Tails?

...

...

...

Who am I?

...

...

...

_Sky, bird, ring, enemy, enemy, enemy, enemy, ledge, pit..._

What are those two doing? What the hell are they doing? I 'm gonna-

I am-

_gap, chaos, darkness, death, death, death... _

I am-

falling.

Oh, my God. OH MY GOD. The ground is approaching, an acute pain spreads its tentacles within my throat and I realise I've been screaming my lungs out, my arms are frantically trying to find some kind of ledge to cling on to, it's all a vertiginous sequence of-

_THUD._

* * *

><p>Eyes open.<p>

For a moment, the whole world seems to have melted to an elusive blur; then, slowly, the optical nerve proceeds with a further analysis of my current whereabouts. There's a flat whiteness looming over me, that my tired mind recognises as a ceiling. Sunlight is penetrating the room-presumably through the curtains of a window somewhere near.

Texture. There's a soft, wet fabric underneath my fingers. It recedes with a screech of disgruntlement if they press themselves against it.

Sound. Faint music, voices, light curses here and there, sounds of the morning traffic.

I am on my familiar, obsolete bed. In my room. At Station Square.

I close my eyes again, and underneath shut eyelids I try to remember.

_My name is Sonic. I am a hero. My best friend is Tails. My trademark is my speed. My legs tried to kill me yesterday, and I tripped and fell off a cliff. _

_But I am not dead._

_Strange. I'd bet that when you smash your skull against concrete, you die. _

_I'd bet that when you die, you are dead._

_Why am I not dead?_

My mind concertrates on my right leg. It says, _move out of the bed. _

It obliges with pleasure.

Okay. Your turn now, you_ hideous freak_ of a left one.

Same here.

I hate my legs. They are trying to prove me wrong. _Insane. _

I will sew them off someday. Running is my life only when I can control it.

Otherwise it is my death- my death that _doesn't kill me. _

This horrifying headache is still devouring every trace of logical thought within my mind. And my stomach is empty. Oh well. Maybe I should just go down to the kitchen and fill myself with the contents of the fridge, before getting down to solving any kind of maze. Philosophy was invented after fire for a reason, after all.

As I slowly make my way down the wooden staircase, my eyes inquisitively roam the apartment, lingering on some petty details, here and there; a photo of me and Tails appended on the wall; a couple of books I never opened carelessly tossed on the carpet; a large coffee stain on my couch -that's probably also the cleanest thing about it.

All so peaceful, so tranquilizing.

So mundane and full of quotidianity.

_I am Sonic The Hedgehog. Tails is my best friend. That absolutely temptational smell emanated from the kitchen is probably Amy that came to prepare me breakfast, as she usually does on weekends. My legs are the source of my fame. And yesterday was a bad dream. An irritatingly realistic bad dream._

"Hey there, sleepyhead."

I am standing on the last step, casually leaning against the wall. Across the hallway and through the open door, she has raised her eyes from the table to meet mine. And for a minute, the world is just green upon green.

Then, Amy smiles in that special way of hers, that makes her look just the way she is- a plain, imperfect, skinny girl rapidly moving from childhood towards adult life. It is my favorite smile in the world, the true essense of smile-ness, by all means; honest, and real, and funny, and infectious, for it always makes me smile back.

"Had a tiring day, huh?"

I confine myself to a mere shrug.

"Well, day, night. I am still trying to figure it out myself."

She is leaning over the table, neatly positioning napkins and plates. The left strap of her yellow dress has slipped to the side, leaving her shoulder bare- and there's this overmastering need bulging within my mind to put it right.

But I don't. I just stand there, motionless like a robot, standing on my two newly obtained enemies amidst a messy kitchen that smells of cookies.

Why do I keep running away from you, Amy?

_Well,_ I realize, _my legs do, I don't._

I really have to take care of those fellows. Or else.

"So, this is why I am here!", she cooes at her usual cheerful tone, giving me a childish wink that elicits a weak laugh from my side. "A chocolate chip cookie is the cure to_ everything!"_

And so the poky room falls silent and remains this way for the following thirteen minutes and fifty two seconds. During which, the only sound to fill the air is Amy's rythmical breathing, as she sits on the opposite side of the table, staring at me with an indecipherable look upon that face of hers. It is a taciturn examination, a small disapproval.

Her way of letting me know how much it hurts to be rejected; the woman before me has tried hard to seem cheerful-and failed terribly at it.

Then, suddenly, the facade breaks. Like a stalled robot, she lets herself fall on the wooden surface.

Shoulders convulsing, hands trembling.

Broken.

I want to walk over to her, whisper an apology, a confession, a fucking joke to cheer her up, anything. But an invisible power keeps me tied to the chair.

Why do I keep running away from you, Ames?

"Look, I've tried, okay?", Amy's voice is thick with exasperation, eyes damp, vacant as they rise to look at the source of their distress. Her fingers cling on the tablecloth, so much so that I can distinctly see small veins popping out of her bare hands. "I chased you, I starved myself to death, I tried to become someone else- and everything to no avail -everything!"

"Amy, I-"

"I know you don't love me, Sonic, I am not a kid anymore. All I ever wanted was to take care of you- be it as a friend or something more. And for what? Never to receive the subtlest trace of recognition, of gratitude."

She seems thoroughly schizophrenic now, face traits having melted to a mask of pain, hatred, repressed passion; nothing about this specific face reminds of childhood, or naivety.

Amy. Where did our carefree selves go?

"You know what? Sometimes I get this weird impression-", she laughs, a rude, effortless, painstaking laugh of sheer madness. Then, her voice abates to an uncertain whisper. "Yes, this funny impression that this conversation -among numerous others- has been repeated numerous times between us, like -like those favorite movie scenes where you press PREVIEW and then PLAY and you see them again, and again, and again."

A crystalline fear is implanted within jade eyes.

Afraid.

We're both afraid.

"Amy- "

Words died.

"Do you believe in what the French call a Deja vu, Sonic? That moments of our lives are repeated in an incessant manner towards infinity?" she gives me another terrifying laugh. "But what am I saying -you're probably finding me too dense and hyper to mention such an elusive concept."

Words are flooding my lungs, my throat, my mouth, so much so that I am almost choking on their truth.

"Ames- "

"-My opinion on you is not even close to what you described.", Amy has just pronounced the exact words lingering in my mouth. "It's the third time since I started counting...that you're saying those exact words, that is."

I am staring at the woman I love and a weird impression has dawned on me.

And my legs start running away, so that, before I can actually phrase it to her, they have already dashed off.

As I said before, _never mind the blood_.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: This is the first time I am actually experimenting on something entirely knew, concept, style, and development-wise. It is a study on my creativity, on the flexibility of writing, if you want. I am sorry for the overall craziness of this ;)**

**After all, I've always wanted to write something schizophrenic, and eccentric, and well, entirely mine.**

**~Anna**


	2. Decarbonation

**Placebo, ****_a story by Anna Marcelli Palmer_**

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><p><em><strong>~Akinesthesia or akinaesthesia (lack of kinaesthesis): inability to control one's muscular function, limited perception of motion, difficulty of coordinated movement, usually caused by severe damage to the central nervous system (brain andor spinal cord). **_

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><p><strong>-2- <strong>

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><p>Ι don't know how they knew it, but they are right.<p>

As my legs are dashing out the front door-and consequently carrying the rest of my unwilling self with them- a gigantic red blur looming over the busy streets of Station Square becomes gradually more visible.

Eggman's ship is outside.

_How, just how on Mobius did those two see-_

I automatically look up in the daytime sky. It's surreally unmoving and as blue as it can get. A small troop of puffy clouds, pinned upon the azure velvet with an almost ingenious dexterousness, makes the whole scenery look worryingly impeccable. I almost catch myself searching for the hidden cameras.

God, what if this is what the afterlife looks like? A lame imitation of the place you love most, filled with lame imitations of the people you love most, in an eternal state of mind where one can blissfully relive moments of their life in the real world? What if my dead body is slowly decaying in the murky depths of that Green Hill pitfall?

What-

-what if-

-it ends somewhere?

My eyes try to focus on the pavement. The same pavement my rebellious legs are running on.

Geometrically perfect, square pieces of stone. Cast one by one in a repetitive manner, each of them approximately half a centimeter away from its adjacent brothers. The impact of shoe smashing against concrete, again and again and again sends small, yet firm, vibrations through my body.

It can't be a state of mind.

I can't be dead.

I can't believe that, should I continue heading towards one given direction, the surroundings will eventually collapse to an infinite and absolute blackness.

_Nothing_ is a term my simple mind can't cope with.

...

...

...

_CRASH. _

_THUD. _

_CRASHTHUDCRUSHTHUDCR- _

My head jerks up in search of the source of that deafening sound. And yes, if what is happening to me is but another cruel joke of causality, the explanation for this one can be considered as at least equally hilarious.

I am fighting Eggman.

And sweet mother of Chaos, am I doing it badly.

_Not only are those stupid limbs turning themselves against their owner, but they don't know how to protect themselves, as well. _

_This can't be good. _

_This can by no means be good._

_Okay, let's take a deep breath and look what we have to do with. _

Float my quills, is _this_ what the fuss is all about?

Before me is a deplorable excuse of Egghead's usual work; an gigantic, funny-looking invention that only performs two main attacks: First, it releases a bunch of lock-on explosive missiles. Then, it rapidly turns around and dives towards me. Really, all a sane person has to do is dodge the dive and run towards the robot when the missiles arrive; with a swift jump to the side, the thing will literally bombard itself.

Apparently, whatever is controlling my body can't make this priminitive mental process.

Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfu-

Oh, no. OH NO.

C'mon, you idiots! How could you see that the battleship was outside the apartment, and now you cannot even avoid those childish explosives? I am gonna die! We all are going to die, well,_ unless you move_!

Okay. Wrong time to undergo an acute nervosis.

Don't panic. _DON' T PANIC._

Thick drops of perspiration run between my eyelids as I desperately try to regain control over myself. Okay, Sonic, we're heroes. Everyone is supposed to worship and adore us, we're, like, _omnipotent_, ain't we?

I am frantically skimming through a mental list of limbs; right leg, left leg, right arm, left arm. Nothing. Not a single finger moves under my commands.

They are all insisting on doing their thing.

And the missiles are fast approaching.

God.

I think I am having a heart attack.

Left leg, right leg, left arm, right arm, nothing.

_Jesus! Sweet Jesus! They are here! They are almost touching my back and those imbecilles of legs cannot even perform a spin dash to avoid them! Do something do something do someth-_

Left leg, right leg, left arm, right arm, right leg, left leg, right arm, left arm, left, right, left.

My heart is performing a drum solo.

It strikes me as plain odd those people gawking at the event can't hear it.

_They are touching me, I can feel the hot breath on my skin, JESUS, it burns, it pulls, it scorches- _

_-_Left leg, right leg, left arm, right arm, left right left right left right lef-

_Move, Sonic, move! I am not ready to die, I AM NOT READY TO D-_

AAAAA AAAAAAA AAA AAAA AAA AAAAA AAAAA AAAAA~!

...

...

...

_Music is playing._

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><p>Just look how painstakingly beautiful the sky is. How unmoving. How fake.<p>

People have gathered above me.

_Leave. Go._

I am so confused.

So afraid.  
>So dizzy.<br>So alone.

A vertiginous sequence of faces. They melt into a blurry conglomerate of traits and then come to clarity again. The world around twirls and dances, dimentions flicker, dilating and contracting.

I lost to that piece of cake. Why was it such a piece of cake?

Unless-

_Unless he knew I wouldn't be able to beat it. _

But he wouldn't be able to know about my kinetic issues. Did he implant something in my head? Did he do something to my nervous system?

Am I yet another of his freakish creations now?

I hate my legs.  
>Eggman is inside them.<br>If I cut them off, I cut off his devilish plans of having me.

God. I am so tired.

So afraid.  
>So dizzy.<br>So alone.

A thought is floating underneath my skull, as liquid as its scattered contents. I sense it is desperately trying to emerge, assume a meaning, a name. But it just remains there, motionless, idle.

I am shouting that I'm alive, but no one seems to listen.

I raise my left arm.

It's a decarbonated mass of meat and black fur. A part of my flesh has been torn, gone, revealing the remains of a bone underneath.

_How funny the mechanism of life is. _

_Fragile and funny. _

Some metres ahead, the small jello that used to be my frontal lobe, thinks.

_Why are their faces and clothes repeating themselves?_

* * *

><p>Eyes flash wide open, retinae shrink to an infinitesimal dot; a rude beam of sunlight has penetrated the room through the curtains, conclusively hampering my vision.<p>

My head jerks to the side. The clock on the night table flashes eight thirty with its rectangular, crimson numbers.

My heart stops pounding so hard against my chest. It's home. I'm home.

Alive.

Left leg. Check.

Right leg. Check.

Left arm. Check.

Right arm. Check.

A perfectly healthy, athletic, intact body.

_My name is Sonic. I am a hero. Ivo Robotnik is my arch-nemesis and Amy is my stalker. Yesterday, my legs tried to kill me and I got hit by an explosive missile, tearing half of my body to shreds, while the remaining half got decarbonated. _

_Peculiar. _

_I'd bet that, when your brains just splatter all over the sidewalk, you die. _

_I 'd bet that, when you die, you are dead. _

_Why am I not dead?_

The unsettling contents of yesterday's nightmare have gotten my stomach tragically empty, so my feet mechanically head for the stairs, rapidly making their way to the kitchen. Time to fill you up, buddy.

An ominous premonition stops me halfway to the source of a delightful smell.

Cookies. Chocolate chip cookies.

Shit.

Like ink, a dark feeling pumps through my veins. It reminds me of something, but right now I cannot figure out what it is.

Upon setting foot on the last step, my eyes meet with the green orchard of Amy's. The rosy girl is standing immobile, staring at me through the kitchen.

The ink comes back, multiplied by a hundred.

Any sane person says hi, when they see a friend. Any logical man greets the woman he loves.

But I stride towards her.

She is ready to collapse, trembling, shaking. Her eyes are red, clashing terribly with the emerald irises, damper with every blink; as I approach her, Amy throws herself on me like a madwoman, plunging her nails into the flesh of my shoulders, hanging on to them as though for dear life.

"Tell me-", she stammers and her voice cracks. "Tell me you- you saw it too!"

Overcome by an unwanted feeling, I wrap my arms around her frail figure, bringing our bodies close. Against my chest, her heart is pounding with unhingement. On my shoulder, her breath is chaotical.

Amy. Where did our carefree selves go?

"Tell me I am not insane...You...you were dead...and now we're back here...like the last time..."

I am hugging the woman I want and a strange thought has just dawned on me.

But I never actually phrase it to her, because I sense my independence will go away soon, and my legs will be on the run again.

So I decide to be myself, for the very first time.

And bring my lips to hers violently, in a sorrowful, desperate kiss.

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><p><strong>This is a collaboration between me and my paranoia. Thanks for reading. <strong>

**~Anna**


	3. Asphyxiation

**Placebo, ****_a story by Anna Marcelli Palmer_**

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><p><em><strong>~Welcome to the Twilight Zone.<strong>_

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><p><strong>-3-<strong>

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><p>She is trailing her fingers down my back and I am on fire.<p>

_We_ are on fire.

With the unimpeachable enthusiasm of a child eating ice cream for the first time, we are willingly drowning in a creek of senses; skin upon skin, a breath for a breath, a heart for a heart. Reality is just a bowl of chocolate chip cookies, as well as the shards of broken glass scattered all over the carpet.

I am tasting her, exploring her, feeling every function of her body as it synchronizes itself with mine. Adrenaline, a heavy drug pumping through the veins. Perspiration. Liquid. Contractions of the muscular system. Unintentional movements, caused by the overdrive of the nervous system -fingers clutching flesh, a mechanical arch of the back. Heat that scorches the skin, the painful bliss of friction.

A volcano erruption that occurs in total silence.

I am making love to her with the shyness of a palm that slips under a shirt, leaving a sweaty stain on the breast of its owner, fathoming the heartbeat underneath.

I am making love to her with the sorrow of a tear that tumbles down a cheek, of a face that contracts to a mask of pain against a pair of lips.

I am making love to her with the anger of two people violently slamming against a kitchen table, and falling on the floor, upon a sea of broken glass.

I am making love to her with my love and with my hate; love because she is the only thing I want to live for and-

-hate because she won't let me die.

Something has gone dead wrong with our lives, and we are having sex on my breakfast.

Well, if this isn't fighting madness with madness.

_Thud._  
><em>Breath.<em>  
><em>Thud.<em>  
><em>Breath<em>  
><em>Thud.<em>  
><em>Breath.<em>

_Thud breath thud breath thud breath th-_

_..._

_..._

_..._

Time freezes.

I sense, I _know _it's the perfect time to panic, but my arms remain pressed against Amy's back, my feet pinned to the ground; I know it's the perfect time to panic, and yet my heart has stopped beating.

Literally.

Limbs won't move, retinae won't falter. This is radically different from the previous cases of akinaesthesia I've faced (In my dreams? In a parallel life? Am I going schizophrenic? I cannot know anymore) .

Why are we stuck in this uncomfortable position? Is it because we changed the recurrent sequence of events in our messed lives? Is it because we-

-is it because we _made a decision?_

The only thing I can do anymore -and this only because of the lack of alternative choices- is look deep into her eyes. They don't move, just like mine, but there is a small, yet firm, gleam of hope within them.

Suddenly we both understand.

And I curse within my mind, for I cannot smile to her.

Suddenly we know this is absolution.

Lover on lover, senses forever frozen in overdrive, bodies forever interwined in a shared, much longed for freedom; the erotic image of a woman arching her back against the man she loves projected again and again, dancing its tango towards infinity.

Just as though someone pressed PAUSE.

* * *

><p>REWIND.<p>

PLAY.

* * *

><p>Darkness.<p>

Light.

Dawn.

_Fuck. Fuck by all means. _

I can move.  
>I am alive.<br>In my bedroom.  
>It's morning, I can hear sounds of traffic, my stomach is empty and I. Am. In. My. Bedroom.<p>

The smell of chocolate chip cookies feels the air.

And it all gets clear.

I cannot die.  
>I cannot change.<br>I don't remember my childhood.

I don't remember aging.

I cannot tell her how I feel.  
>Because the screen fails <em>exactly<em> at that point.

She is downstairs. She has to be.  
>I run faster than ever, almost tumbling my way to her.<p>

Trembling behind the table. Eyes red. Yellow dress.

Lover.

Amy.  
>I won't let anything else happen to you.<br>I won't let anything like that happen to us ever again.

I love you.  
>But I won't tell.<p>

I run over to her, grab her violently by the shoulders. She looks at me with sorrow and understanding at the same time. Even tries to muster a smile of gratitude when my fingers clench around her neck, pressing against the main artery.

When the fingers that a moment, or an eternity ago, made love to her are now murdering her.

The calmness in those emerald eyes almost tames the burning anger within mine. She tries to utter something, and by the movement of the lips, I can tell she is thinking, _thanks. _

Amy digs her nails in my flesh for a second, making me flinch in pain.

Blood drips on the carpet.

A stain that can't get off.

Muffled throaty sounds. The desperate contraction of the blood vessels. The morbid symptoms of choking.

Then, her arms fall lifeless to the side.

Dead.

She is dead.

I plant a quick kiss upon her cold lips, and before the scenery resets itself yet again, I rush to the bathroom. I am not carrying her; hopefully, we will be together soon.

Fear overcomes the senses in the mere perspective of what I am going to do. Distractedly watching the tub get filled with water, the only thought I allow in my nonsensical soup of a mind is, _If the only freedom left is the freedom of dying, then I shall die a memorably painful death and live every second of it. _

Then I enter it and lie down.

The process proves itself hypnotising; drip after drip after drip, my wet grave gets filled up, and the recurrent plopping sound reaches my ears aloof, and deep, as though coming from the other side of a tunnel.

The water has reached my nostrils.

It covers them.

Then, something strange happens; all external sources of noise are automatically eliminated. My mind can only process the sounds of my organism, as it slows down to an untimely halt.

My heart beats, loud and chaotical like a gunshot, punching my ribcage.

My lungs shrink, burn, and I feel as though they are bursting in their own emptiness.

My mind feels hazy, intoxicated.

My vision is blurry.

My limbs feel a thousand kilos each, should I try to move them.

Contractions. Unintentional movements. Asphyxiation. Pain.

It's excruciating.

And I am smiling.

Smiling as the room goes peaceful, and a last glimpse at the ceiling as it twirls and dances through the water surface, waves my preoccupations goodnight.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Chocolate chip cookies=bad. **


	4. Amputation

**Placebo, ****_a story by Anna Marcelli Palmer_**

* * *

><p><em><strong>~You are my murderer. Yes,<span> YOU<span>. You kill me again, and again, and again. Throw me down pits. Into pools. On missiles and against beasts. I die every single day and every single day I am still here and you kill me way from the beginning.  
>And you do it for your entertainment. <strong>_

* * *

><p><em><strong>-<strong>_**4-**

* * *

><p>There is a crystalline, viscous silence. An unearthly peace that spread its tentacles within the infinite blackness.<p>

My eyes flash wide open. Fear they are going to pop out of the skull that's keeping them in place. Force them to discern any kind of dechipherable shape, color, form, until they start to sting. And yet, all I can see is a flamboyant nothing.

Music can distinctly be heard; some zany melody echoing, corny retro rock style. It vaguely reminds me of something that sends shivers running through what supposedly is my spine. Why does it sound so familiar?

God, I am so tired. Wish I could just exit my head, the ruthless cage that keeps my brain sealed, my mind bonded to its deplorable senses. Wish I could wander free in the universe and unravel the mysteries lying beneath our tragicomedy.

Where am I? I am supposed to be dead, blackish, swollen within the bathtub of my appartment. On my journey straight to Hell, forever engaged with my deepest fear. Instead there's this ridiculous music, irritating and childish, implying that there is still some kind of biological activity going on in there; activity that includes processing external sources of sound.

Bad. Bad. Bad.

_Some fucking neighbor must 've forgotten the radio on._

But, audible through water?  
>Am I still in the tub?<p>

It is so dark here, whatever here may refer to. Sometimes I am almost certain of having seen a random movement, a faint stir within the stillness, but soon everything collapses back to its meaningless glory. Mind plays tricks. Fear aggravates. Music gets louder and louder.

Some touches of light here and there. Uncertain visual signals, life on the canvas of an impressionist.

I can't care anymore. My legs. Amy. Four different causes of four different deaths. Three rebirths, and possibly moving on to number four. Recurrent memories, recurrent faces, recurrent everything. My life whom I don't own. My life whom I don't live.

My life whose conscience I just gained three days ago.

I.

Can't.

Care.

Not.

Anymore.

Nothing makes sense. Nothing ever happens. Everything is nothing, me being a nothing along with it. Nothings can't do somethings.

So I wait.

Close what must be my eyes. Shut. Clinging on to the music. Focusing on the acoustic harmony. Focusing on the sense, the logical path the notes follow, the safe pattern I can never have.

Reopen them.

Only to see myself running up the Green Hill. Feel myself running up the Green Hill.

But not controlling myself, who runs on the Green Hill.

* * *

><p><strong>Sometimes I hear this song. <strong>

**It's cheerful and it's epic. It's fearful and it's home.  
>Sometimes it's just stuck in my mind, four lines, four lines written only for me, playing again and again and again.<strong>

**I look around for the source. Tied to my senses. **

**But it's never there. There's just the song. Four lines. Me. **

* * *

><p>This time I don't even bother trying to assume control over my body. This time I know perfectly that, whatever it is that has started feeding on my brains, cannot be defeated. This time I know that my usual tenacity won't work.<p>

Not with this one.

After all, -irony of ironies!- what can happen anymore which hasn't already happened? What should I be afraid of?

Dying?

_DYING?_

Mwa. Ha. Haha.

So I don't try.  
>I just wait.<br>See what my limbs do.  
>Process the information.<br>Try to figure out why.

This time they are actually doing well. Rolling. Attacking. Dodging blades and bullets of all kinds. Jumping. Running. Collecting rings.

The sun shines with pretentiousness in the daytime sky. Just as though someone pinned it there on purpose. Colors feel like needles piercing through the eye. Bright. Blindening. Surreal.

Fake.

Can see the ocean spreading its azure velvet ahead. As unmoving as paper.

Music is playing.  
>The fucking zany music. That. Never. Stops.<p>

Why do I need to collect those stupid rings?  
>Why the Hell should I even bother collecting them?<p>

Music.  
>Doesn't.<br>STOP.

I think I saw a number floating up ahead, shining in its whiteness like a gigantic celestial pendulum. Five digits. The first one being a three, possibly. My eyes automatically look up in surprise, but my legs are sprinting so maniacally that I am not even sure I ever saw it for real.

Does the same thing happen to everyone else? Amy? Tails? Knuckles? Shadow, even?

Or is it just me?

Okay, Sonic, focus. Breathe in. Breathe out. There's gotta be an explanation. Remember what you know about schizophrenia. Or paranoia. Anything.

_Some kind of malfunction in the frontal lobe. Lack of a chemical something in the neurons. Confusion. Hallucinations.  
>Realities that are not realities. <em>

The number flashes back, in synch with the rough impact of my body as it smashes itself against a flying robot. I think the three transformed itself to a four.

This is so fucking messed, I cannot fucking believe I am actually trying to fucking explain it.

I think an idea is starting to dawn on me, but it still flows like liquid down the walls of my skull. Repetition, rebirth, akinaesthesia, inability to change one's destiny. The only time me and Amy tried to make a choice for ourselves ended up in an unpreceeded apocalypse.

Like a glitch. A cosmic glitch.

I can feel it right there, heart speeds up in sheer panic as the notion begins to assume consciousness of itself.

But it never fully does, because something has happened.  
>My body has found a blue Chaos Emerald.<p>

The world freezes.  
>The music gets louder.<p>

Then it all collapses, dies in a heart shattering fadeout, as though nothing ever existed.

* * *

><p><strong>Sometimes I get this weird impression that I am sealed in a box. <strong>

**It's small. Rectangular. Pitch black inside. **

**Other times I feel like I want to reach out and discover the world, but my fingers are touching nothing but glass. **

**Sometimes I am afraid someone is watching me. **

**But mostly I feel nothing, because the box is never there, if you don't look at it.**

* * *

><p><strong>_NOW LOADING_<strong>

* * *

><p>Good morning, chocolate chip cookies. Today is the day I am actually going to sew my freakish legs off.<p>

Why?_ There is no why. _I never asked anybody as to why all of this shit is happening. So hell yeah, off the two fellows go.

Know I have nothing to lose- cannot die, cannot get hurt more than I already am; a broken puppet starring in a lame shadow play. And thus, dear Amy, dear Cookies, dear Sadistic Asshole At The Control Panel, wheelchair time.

_If it fails when something abnormal is done, then I will make it collapse within two days.  
>If the only freedom left is the freedom of self-destruction, then I shall cause myself the kind of harm I am mostly afraid of. <em>

_AmPUtaTioN. _

This time the way down the staircase is calm, peaceful. Take my time on each step. Even catch myself humming the first stanza of that idiotic song resounding incessantly within my head. Make rythmical moves so as to match the tempo _wheel-chair-time-wheel-chair-time_.

Look around, thinking_ none of this is real. _Thrown clothes. Books. The coffee stain on my obsolete couch. The crack on my favorite mug. Even the friggin' chili dogs in my fridge are not really mine. They don't represent _me_; They represent the one I am supposed to be.

And _she_ knew for such a long time.

I find Amy in her usual spot, curled in a fetal position against the back of her chair. Crying silently, face in palms. Pass right before her. Open the drawer. Search frantically its contents for a nice, big, scary kitchen knife.

Ah, there.

With the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of the carpet; the remains of a stain that must've once been red.

Blood.  
>Nails against flesh.<br>Choking.  
>A stain that can't get off.<p>

THIS IS REAL.

I fall on my knees, down by the moribund brown mark. Fingers hesitantly playing with the dagger, which has already gone damp from my sweat. Breathe deeply. Feel the rage seethe in my entrails. Up it goes. Ready to explode.

Both arms raised in the air, fingers clenched firmly around the lethal weapon. See how much it hurts.

This is for the dreams I will never fulfil.  
>This is for the children I will never have.<br>This is for the person I'll never be.  
>This is for the inventions Tails will never make.<br>This is for the world Eggman will never conquer.  
>This is for the Maria Shadow never met.<br>This is for the love Amy will never get.

Seven hits. This, This, This, This, This , This and This. Mind hazy, uncertain. Fingers feel sore, numb, bruised against the metal, but for theirs clinging on to it as though for dear life. Vision starts to clear up. Pain kicks in.

Deep. Thorough. Almost paralyzing.  
>Then, dread.<br>I cannot feel anything from my hips downwards.  
>Because there's nothing there. Not anymore.<p>

Two scarlet-ridden masses of meat ahead. They can't feel anymore. They don't belong to someone anymore.

Intoxication. Dimentions waltz through the double vision. Clothes soaked in liquid, fingers glistening in the products of my own organism. Blood loss.

I feel light- headed.

My eyes are crying uncontrollably, put pain gets killed by the adrenaline pumping through my veins; and yet, despite all that creek of tears that shows me the world through a distorting mirror, I can distinctly hear someone's thunderous laughter.

I am laughing. Laughing my head off.

Laughing as the world goes dark.

Laughing as Amy screams above me.

I love you, I think. But the only real thing about me gets muffled in a deafening sequence of sniggers.

* * *

><p><strong>I am Sonic. Sonic The Hedgehog. <strong>


	5. GAME OVER

**Placebo, ****_a story by Anna Marcelli Palmer_**

* * *

><p><em><strong>~Choose multiplayer mode for a massive suicide!<strong>_

* * *

><p><em><strong>-<strong>_**5-**

* * *

><p><strong>You s u c k. <strong>

**You murder me in every imaginable way, and then start cursing me. **

**You yell at me, because I died. **

**You can't coordinate your eyes and fingers, horribly attatched as you are to the idiotic jello that fills up the empty space within your skull, and you blame _me. _**

**Your reflexes are worse than my life, and you blame _me. _**

**But ask yourself, what do _I_ know? I don't have a self. I don't have a future. I've got seven million twin brothers that bear my name. Heck, I don't even have a body, I am just a bunch of colored dots projected repeatedly on a flat glass, fifty to sixty times a second. What the bloody _hell could I ever know?_**

**I am a mistake. A glitch. Have you ever thought of yourself as a glitch?  
>I don't know what material is, for I've never felt it slip underneath my fingers. Do you enjoy your moments in your world of worlds?<br>I am in love, and yet I can't feel what hormones are. Do you know how to love with yours?  
>My memory is sealed in a small black piece of plastic, and you erase it whenever you want. Do you savor yours better?<br>I am not alive, but I want to live. Do you?****  
>I have never moved a mere centimeter from my position, and you are jealous of my speed. But you can run away- I can't.<strong>

**Oh, relief of relieves! **

**I may be a nothing, but at least I can take comfort in the fact that _you_ blame _me._  
>Blame me just because YOU SUCK.<strong>

* * *

><p>The world blinks like a stalled electric lamp. Consciousness of the surroundings comes and goes. Amy's frail figure looming over me projected through a slideshow, moving her lips as though she is saying something, even if no sound is actually produced.<p>

And, just then, clarity kicks in for yet another time.

"...-to yourself?_ Just why did you do that_?"

Eyes piercing through eyes. Insanity upon insanity, exasperation upon exasperation. She knows. She damn knows perfectly why I cut my legs off. And why I made us both die the other day. And why I will keep doing it until everything goes right.

Until it's permanent. Death. Silence. Peace.

The only freedom left is the freedom to choose my expiration date.

Open my mouth, force the vocal cords to vibrate, create meaning; instead, all I can manage is an insane, throaty exclamation, coughed up together with blood and vomit. Part of me wants to laugh at the whackiness of the scene. Organic liquid in ones and zeroes.

So fucking amusing.

Fingers cling onto soft yellow fabric, eliciting a shiver of surprise, of unhingement. Random thoughts surface and drown in an ocean of pain.

"I...did...it...", breath becomes chaotical, words lose their meaning. But I have to muster those few lines, I owe it to her. "I did it because this is the only way I can exist... and bargain... for something entirely...mine".

Pupils dilate and contract, fear pumps through the veins, adrenaline suffocates any logical mental process. Tears lurk behind eyes. An enormous amount of love forever trapped within the murky depths of an erroneous algorhythm.

Amy.

Do I love you?

Or was I programmed to?

"But how...", perspiration is streaming between her eyelids, and her hands are leaving sweaty stains upon the forehead they are stroking. "How can we control ourselves right now and, when the surroundings change, y-you...I-I..."

"It's the time it takes the machine or whatever to load the next level. Don't you see? Someone controls us, and when they do everything seems fake and ridiculously sloppy."

She knows. She damn knows for so much longer than I do.

That's why she's always been so cheerful, so rabid. It was her own way of not going paranoid.

That's why her eyes, those gorgeous emerald eyes that someone else imagined and drew for her, grow wider with dread the more my pulse grows weaker.

"The numbers...the music...the fucking zany music that goes like..."

Amy.

I can hear your muffled cries from somewhere close, but you are just a pink blur in a room that oscillates back and forth.  
>I want to hold your hand, and share with you the bliss that overcomes my failing heart, but I am just a limbless piece of meat bleeding uncontrollably on the kitchen carpet.<p>

I want to save you for real, from this nightmare of nightmares, but truth is I can only die.

And pray that the machine, unable to process the new information, will explode in its own mathematical simplicity.

"Sing to me, Ames. The zany little music that never stops."

Don't weep.

I want to hear your beautiful voice.

Sing for me.

Like a present goodnight.

Like a bittersweet lullaby.

Sing for me.

Your skinny, girlish arms are around me. I can feel their weak pressure, their familiar warmth against what was my body. Your heartbeat makes up for the lack of mine. Your dress, your skin, are soaked in my very flesh and blood.

We are one.  
>It's beautiful.<br>It's absolution.

Your voice cracks, a few notes live their short lives and die in the total silence.

It's the song. That silly, shallow, idiotic song with the ironic content, that seems written for my virtual persona.

_"Follow me...s-set me free - trust me  
><em>

Your sweet singing voice filling my scarlet grave.  
>The fucking jumpy happy melody.<p>

_And we will escape from the city_

And now we can both die.  
>Again and again and again.<br>Be free.

_I'll make it through, prove it to you  
>Follow me. <em>

The lights finally go out. Everything will be over soon.  
>Dead and independent in the arms of someone real. Ready to commit suicide over and over again, until I suceed in my only scope.<p>

The lights finally go out. Your singing voice in my ears. The song.

Through my self-destruction, I can finally be someone.  
>And kill that videogame character again and again and again.<p>

It feels odd, and overwhelming, and exciting-

_I'll make it through, prove it to you_

-Like happiness.

_Follow me. _

* * *

><p><strong><em>_GAME OVER_<em>**

* * *

><p><strong>AN: I murdered Sonic The Hedgehog. But I find consolation in the fact that I am not alone.**


End file.
